


Warden of the North

by Massivebacktrack



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, F/F, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Massivebacktrack/pseuds/Massivebacktrack
Summary: A story about what if Arya had made it to the Wall, her rise to become Warden of the North and very innocent f/f content as everyone is more towards book ages than the TV show
Relationships: Shireen Baratheon/Arya Stark
Kudos: 25





	1. Ch1: Eastwatch

Ch 1: Eastwatch

"Get up boy," shouted the old crow, and then to get his point across planted his boot into the boy's stomach. The boy cried out and curled up in pain, he looked up and cursed the old man.

"Enough of that," said the old crow, "you'll have more cause to cry than a kick to the guts soon enough. Welcome to Eastwatch." Then without warning he reached down and hauled the boy up by his collar and shoved him towards the stairs leading out of the hold of the small cog before turning his attention to the other men sleeping uneasily in chains on the damp floor of the hold. 

The boy struggled up the steps, the shackles on his hands making climbing up them under the gentle sway of the ship difficult. Blinking as the sunlight poured down the stairwell as it emerged onto deck. The chaotic scenes of a ship having just made port played out; all around sailors and dock hands were hauling barrels and pallets out of hatches and onto winched platforms or down gang planks. Above, two men hung on the main yardarm gathering in the great black sail.

The boat had made its final call, it must have as the boy had never been let above deck before. During the trip he had thought he would die drowned chained in that hold as the ship was dragged beneath the waves. One night a storm had blown up and tossed the cog high into the air as it created each wave only to lurch and crash back into the sea with a sickening crack. Water had poured in between gaps in the timber and sailors with pumps, planks and tar had trampled the chained men in their desperation to reach each leak. All the while the sea tossed sailors and prisoners alike like beans in a baby's rattle. A set aside hammer had flown through the air and stove in the head of one prisoner. He had lain there another five hours, his blood and brains leaching across the floor, before the old crow and a sailor had come and hauled the body away.

The boy's thoughts were interrupted as he had to quickly sidestep as two sailors dashed past cursing slow witted gawpers. Behind him more men and boys were emerging from the hold. They wore clothes soiled with the filth of weeks at sea living below decks. He had been lucky and had been taken at Duskendale where the cog had made North to the wall stopping only at Gullstown and White Harbour. Some of the men had been taken at Sunspear as the crow's cage toured the South and the Crownlands before the hold was full to the old crow's satisfaction. The boy had been one of the last aboard. 

The old crow emerged last from the hold and started to shove men towards the gang plank and onto the dock where more crows were waiting. The boy hurried towards it but couldn't escape a sharp blow to the back from the stock of the old crow's crossbow. Another cry of pain escaped as the wounds from the flogging the one legged knight had ordered opened up again.

"Quit your whining boy," said the old crow, "you don't know how lucky you are." Then stepping onto the dock he turned to the face the men. "None of you know how lucky you are. Thieves, rapers, murderers halve of you and paupers and bastards the rest. Well you've all escaped death for the time being whether that was the noose or starvation when winter comes. At the wall your crimes will be set aside if you swear the oath and your bellies will be fed so long as you serve; with winter coming, and war here, it's a better fate than any of you could expect. But," tracking his crossbow across the group with a grin, "if any of you want to reject our generous offer raise your hand now and I'll put you on your previous path gladly."

The boy looked at his feet. The man was right this was good fortune compared to the months before and, he thought wistfully, somewhere along the wall was his last brother. Keep a low profile and maybe they'd see each other again thought the boy. Risking a glance around he saw that most of the other prisoners were similarly subdued, in their hearts they knew the old crow was right.

"Good," said the old man, "well I'm glad to say that's me rid of you. You lot are now in the care of young Bryn here," he said indicating a young blond man dressed in black who had appeared next to him, "you learn your places and serve and maybe you'll live long enough to be pastured out as a wandering crow like me. If not, well you'll be dead before I next return."

"Come on," said Bryn, turning to walk away from the dock and towards the gate of the road that led up to the keep. It was only then he saw for the first time, with the keep like a weed growing against its miserly shelter, the wall towering up above - a mile of ice disappearing into the dull white of the overcast sky above. He wasn't the only one of the new conscripts gaping at the sight of it. He heard one man whimper and many more curse. One man suddenly ran off in the direction of a gate and a road heading south. He hadn't made it ten yards when there was a dull thud as a bolt shattered his skull. The boy whipped round to see the old crow laughing as he lowered the crossbow before casually turning away.

Bryn, sighing turned round to the group and pointed at two of the men. "You pick that up and throw it into the sea and then hurry after us or you'll be next."

The boy trudged after Bryn the keep was actually a couple of miles inland of the dock across the frozen mud of the road. His shoes were falling apart and despite the exertion of the march cold entered the boy's bones. When winter truly sets in the boy knew he'd not survive in the open like this. Reading the men's weary faces, Bryn called back, "I know this is hard going but once we're inside the walls at Eastwatch there'll be hot food and you'll be issued with new clothes and furs so you'll not freeze. However, if you stop now the only one who'll come back for you is the brother sent to burn your corpse." Grimly the boy ignored the complaints of bleeding and freezing feet and stumbled on.

A couple of hours later the boy stood in the main yard of the keep in a queue of men waiting to receive clothes and rations. Slowly she approached a broad table staffed by a group of crows. As he reached the front of the queue a middle aged man looked up from the book he was scribbling in and proceeded to look the boy up and down.

"Scrawny one ain't you," said the man, "half ration." One of the other men behind the table ladled out some stew into a pewter bowl and tore off a chunk of bread. 

"Hands boy," said the man drawing the boy's attention away from the streaming bowl of food, "you're not going to be able to eat with your hands in irons."

Grudgingly he held out his hands and the man took a key that was chained to the table and undid the heavy padlock that held the chains in place. He looked down at his wrists, the skin was raw and bled where the iron had rubbed. 

"Don't bother trying to run, you'll freeze or starve before anyone finds you out in the gift and even if they did they'd only execute you as a deserter, understand?" The man said holding out the bowl of food.

He snatched the bowl and started devouring the stew hungrily. It was bland but full of starchy vegetables and may have contained some mutton although the boy wasn't lucky enough to get an actual piece.

"Right, you read and write lad?" Asked the man?

"Yes," he replied between mouthfuls.

The man raised a sceptical eyebrow, put down his quill and closed the book he'd been writing in. He held it up and pointed at the title on the cover: "Go on then who does this say?"

"Eastwatch-by-sea, register of new recruits"

"Ha," laughed the man,"who would have bothered to teach you to read."

"I learnt," the boy began but he stopped as the man held out his hand.

"You know what I don't care, I just write it down here," he said opening the book again. "Age?"

"Eleven," by now he had devoured the stew and the bread and the man who ladled it out here or his hand for the bowl to be returned, refilling it for the next man when he did so.

"A man grown then," chuckled the man, "you hunt? use a bow? Know your way with a weapon? Any other useful skills?"

"I can shoot a short bow well enough and I've used a dagger," replied the boy. There was the sword as well but who would believe the tale, and it would raise to many awkward questions.

"Fair enough, you'll learn some more here before you're through, although you don't have the look of one who's going to grow big enough for a long sword."

"Right, we're pretty much done. Go see Horren next on my left and he'll root you out some furs, boots and clothes that don't stink like the midden. Then go see Yarro right at the end and he'll assign you a cot to sleep in. Questions?"

The boy shook his head.

"Good lad, that's the right attitude. Just one more question for you then, who are you?"

"Who am I?"

"Yes, your name boy, so I can write it in this here book and be rid of you." The boy looked pensive, so sighing the man leaned forward and pulled the boy's face down level with his own. "Listen, this is the fucking Night's Watch, whatever you've done don't matter any more. Whoever you were no one gives a shit. Hells you don't even need to give me your real name if you don't want to, just say one for me to write in my book."

The boy thought some more. He had been using other names now for months, maybe longer - it was hard to keep track. 

"Come on lad, you're starting to piss me off now," said the man, "you're not no one."

He was right about that; Jaqen had said so. So, he thought, the boy was to be a man of the Night's Watch and he needed to become someone else again, at least for the moment. Well the boy had no name as he was already someone else, he was the boy who she had hidden behind since Harrenhall, but that boy wouldn't do for the wall. So, she thought, who will this man's name be.

"Torrhen," said Arya.

"Aye, Torrhen it is," said the man, "the crow who kneeled is it. Take my advice boy don't go down on your knees around here. Mole's town is a long trek from here and you've got a pretty look about you."

Torrhen threw him a glare of disgust and turned to collect his furs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work of fanfiction so please be kind.
> 
> There wasn't originally going to be a romantic sub-plot. It kind of just happened.
> 
> The actual story is nearly finished - just 4 more chapters to write but I need some motivation to finish it so I'm going to start posting Chapters up here regularly and hope I get some feedback to improve them and inspire me to finish the tale. Hell I probably need an editor - I apologise in advance for spelling mistakes - I wrote a lot of this on my mobile phone whilst sat on trains to London.
> 
> Anyway, you've read chapter 1. Chapter 2 skips back a little bit and is the first time that blood is spilt. It won't be the last in this story although it's not too gory I hope.


	2. Ch 2: Outside Harrenhall, months earlier

Arya ran until she couldn't anymore, she doubled up, panting for air so badly she retched and vomited. Then she thought of everything that had happened since Gods Eye and she vomited again before sinking to her knees. Finally she thought of her father and then she wept.

Behind her she heard footsteps, she leapt to her feet pulling out her dagger from the sheath she had strapped to her belt. She held it out in front of her as steady as she could but her hands were shaking from cold, from hunger and exhaustion. She knew if the man who was now approaching meant her ill she was dead or worse already. Nevertheless, she called out: "Stop, don't come any further or I'll gut you."

"A girl knows that she cannot," replied the man, "so the lovely girl should lower her blade before something unfortunate occurs."

"Jaqen?"

"Just so," replied the man with the lank mismatched grey and ruddy hair emerging from the most that hung over the riverlands.

"What are you doing here? Your debt is paid," she said bitterly.

"As you say, no obligations remain between a man and a girl." Jaqen paused and took a coin out of his pocket before continuing. "But I am considering making the girl an offer."

"And you're going to flip a coin to decide?"

"This coin, no. This coin is without value," he said with a small smile on his lips, "but in a manner of speaking I may. Sometimes life and death are decided by the fall of a coin, are they not?"

Slowly Arya lowered her knife and let the man approach. He walked slowly up to her until he stood just within arms reach of her. Then he said: "Let us consider a girl's actions since we met and know her thoughts.

When I first met a girl,a girl was a boy. Why?"

"I was hiding from the Queen with the Night's Watch. She and her cunt of a son had my father executed for treason. My sister was taken prisoner and they would have got me too if it weren't for my dance instructor and Yoren. I had to disguise myself to hide amongst his men," she answered.

"Ah, but was the girl a boy?" Jaqen asked.

"I didn't grow a dick if that's what you're asking," Arya snapped back.

"A girl doesn't understand the question, anatomy is not important. Is a man not a man because of his thoughts and deeds? When a girl lived in a castle was she a high born lady in thoughts and deed, or was she someone else?"

"I suppose I never felt like a lady at Winterfell," she said after thinking for sometime, "I always felt akin to my brothers, that I was like them but was stopped from being like them."

"Just so," said the man, "and on the road with Yoren?"

"I felt angry, I felt scared. I was scared I'd be discovered every time I need a piss," she replied, Jaqen looked kindly at her and waited for her to continue, "I guess in some ways though it felt good, to act more like I feel, I felt at ease with Gendry, Hot Pie and Lemmy, at least once I'd beat the shit out of Hot Pie."

"So you were a boy?"

"There were times I think I believed I was, the were many more times I wished it were true, but no most of the time I knew I wasn't."

"A true answer," said the man, "a promising start." He paused for sometime staring at her as she fidgeted uncomfortably under his attention. Eventually he continued, "It was sometime before a man saw the girl again at the ruined castle. Tell a man about the girl's journey."

"Not much to tell, got captured and brought to Harrenhall," she murmured.

"A girl is lying," said the man, "a girl had two friends with her when you freed a man from the fire, yet here you are alone."

"I don't want to talk about it," Arya spat angrily.

"A girl must," said the man bluntly.

Arya glared at Jaqen, "why do you want to know?"

"A man wishes to learn who you are," he said, and then after a moment added, "and who you could become."

"Fine," she replied, "after we escaped the Mountain and his men captured us. They killed my friend and brought us to Harrenhall. A short, sad story."

"The bones of the story only, come I would hear the tale."

Arya looked up at the man, tears already forming in her eyes. "I can't."

_Arya thought back to the fetid pen the Mountain's men had thrown her in with dozens of other prisoners, none of them soldiers just small folk: farmers, tinkers, beggars, whores. All those laid low by the way that had been brought to the riverlands. The whores had been the first to go, Raff the Sweetling and Polliver dragging them out of the pen, their screams and sobs echoing around the forsaken keep, sometimes for hours, until they stopped. None of them returned._

_Arya had raged silently, balling her fists hard enough that her nails drew blood from her palms. Gendry had stayed with her, keeping a restraining hand on her shoulder. "No," he had said one day as she had made to leap up, "this is what happens to low born women during war milady."_

_"Don't call me that you oaf, and how can you say that? They're being raped and murdered. Someone has to stop them?"_

_"Stop them how? We're starving in a cage. They've got swords and armour."_

_"We should escape, my brother's army can't be far from here. The Lannister dogs are scared, you can see it."_

_"Would your brother's men be any different milady? War makes monsters of men. I bet even Tickler was just a swineherd or a drover, never done wrong to no one until some lord decided a soldier to make him."_

_"You're wrong," fumed Arya._

_"I'm not and you're just too stubborn to admit it," he sighed._

_Arya brooded silently for the next half hour, thinking of what she would do to Raff, the Tickler, Polliver and the Mountain if she still had needle. "We should still try and stop them, we'll all be dead if we don't," she said finally._

_"Arry, we were all dead the moment they caught us. Look around you, we all know it, it's just a question of how long we've got."_

_Arya looked around her, Gendry was right, all the small folk in the pen had a hollow look in their eyes, silent and subdued, waiting. They reminded Arya of rabbits caught in snares, not yet dead but knowing death was the only escape from the trap._

_"We're all fucked," sighed Gendry, "except you maybe. Tell them who you are. Tell them you're high born. They might decide to ransom you, at least they'll keep you alive to hold you hostage against your brother. Hells you might even live to the end of the war and get married off to some lord."_

_"No," spat Arya, "I'd rather die."_

_"Arry, please. It ain't just dying here is it. There's dying and then there's worse and this will be worse."_

_"Dead's dead, there's not anything worse than dead."_

_The next day she learnt she was wrong. The Mountain came to the pen that morning. He cast his eyes lazily over them cowering in his shadow before pointing at a man huddling in the corner of the pen. Suddenly Raff and the Tickler were in the pen dragging the man out and towards a post that stood in the middle of the yard. He was whimpering as they bound his hands round the post. Then the Tickler stepped forward with a dagger in his hand and then the man was screaming. Gendry had grabbed her then and pulled her close into his chest so she couldn't see, but she could hear the man's screams and smell the blood and piss and shit. She felt Gendry start to weep, the ragged heaves of his chest, and knew she was crying too._

_The next day they came for another, and another after that. Eventually the rat and the bucket had come out. She had seen that, by then Gendry had given up trying to protect from it. There was no point, they'd all see it first hand in the end._

_Sleep was impossible in the fear and squalor of the pen. She could feel her anger and her resolve seep away into the mud she sat on and knew that she too must look hollow eyed and defeated now, no trace of the girl who with her wolf had faced down a prince._

_Hot Pie had gone quiet almost from the start and now, although none of them had anything to say to each other really, barely reacted to anything. He'd even stopped eating the scraps of food that were occasionally thrown in. Gendry was also quiet, pacing around the pen when no one was particularly watching them, trying to convince Arya to reveal herself when he did say anything._

_Raff and Polliver began taking the other women out of the pen now. Some they brought back, in a way that was worse. Arya could see they had hoped for death and that mercy had been denied them. If she'd have been able to she would have granted them that mercy but she had nothing and the Lannister men broke up any fight amongst the prisoners that looked like it might turn fatal. Killing was there job after all. All the same one morning she awoke to find herself looking into the dead eyes of one of the women. She'd torn her clothes into strips and knotted them to make a rope which she use to hang herself from the corner of the pen. The Tickler had raged when he found her. "She can sit there and rot then," he shouted, "any of you lot cut her down I'll start cutting pieces off you."_

_Gendry came to talk to her that afternoon. "Arry," he said quietly, "your hair."_

_"What about it?"_

_"It's growing," he said._

_"I'm not dead yet, it'll do that," she replied, wondering what he was getting at._

_"I know, thing is," he said looking around nervously before his eyes settled on the corpse of the woman. "Thing is, you're starting to look less like a boy."_

_Arya's eyes went wide at that. "We have to cut it," she said desperately knowing they had nothing to hack it off with. She began pulling her hair out as she began to panic. "Gendry, I don't want that, I couldn't," she gasped out between her breaths which were coming ragged and quick._

_" Just tell them who you are," he said grabbing her arms and pinning them to her side. "Get out of here and live."_

_"I can't," she sobbed, "I know what will happen to you and Hot Pie. How could I live with myself knowing that I left you to that."_

_"Easy," Gendry smiled at her, "this what was always waiting for us one way or another, two poor boys from Flea Bottom it's a miracle we lasted as long as we did."_

_"No," she said firmly. Then she looked at the corpse of the women and started to feel along the fabric of her own tunic. She thought it would tear cleanly._

_"You're a fool milady if you think I'd let you do that, I'll tell them who you are myself first."_

_"You can't," she snarled._

_"I will," he retorted and made to get up, letting go of her arms. Before he could Arya grabbed his head and slammed her own as hard as she could into his face. Her head span with the impact but as she pulled back she saw him collapse to the ground again blood pouring from his nose. She leapt on him, pressing her advantage, not thinking about what she was doing, just bringing her fists up to rain blows on the stupid bull's head. Vaguely she was aware of shouts and then the movement of air before her head exploded with pain and everything went black._

_She woke up her face on fire with pain. She couldn't open her left eye and her jaw moved strangely. When she tried to move the world swam and her vision darkened at the edges. She collapsed back to the floor. Slowly turning her head she saw Gendry sat across from her looking miserable, dried blood caked his face._

_"What happened?" She tried to say but the words wouldn't come out right._

_"You went crazy and attacked me you mad bitch," growled Gendry, "then one of the guards cracked the butt of his spear across your face and you went out. Here these are yours," he said before throwing two teeth towards her, "I should have left you to choke on them."_

_She felt the dull ache, almost lost amongst the others, at the back of her mouth where they must have come from. "I'm sorry," she tried to say._

_"Don't be," he says angrily. "At least we don't have to worry about you looking like a girl now. Your face is uglier than the Hound's now."_

_It was five days before she managed to open her eye again. She hadn't been able to eat either, her jaw hurt to much to do more than sip the rancid water they gave them. Gendry didn't speak to her again during that time, he just say brooding in the opposite corner of the pen, sometimes trying to talk to Hot Pie but mainly just sitting silently._

_There weren't many of them left in the pen now. Arya was surprised the three of them had all been left so long. It couldn't last and she found herself praying to the old god's that when the time came they would lead her back to her father. In the depth of the night she prayed to the Stranger, even though she had never really believed in the Seven, that he would come for her quickly._

_The next morning the Mountain came again. He looked at her and she tried to hold his gaze, defiant at least but as she looked into the black pits of his eyes she quailed and looked away. "That one," he said pointing at her before turning and leaving, and she felt arms lifting her up and dragging her out of the pen._

_"Stop!" A voice shouted. She whipped her head up expecting to see the stupid bull but instead she saw Hot Pie slowly getting to her feet. "You shouldn't," he stammered, "he's high born that one, a lordling."_

_"Shut up Hot Pie," she begged underneath her breath._

_"Oh yeah who is he then?" Laughed Polliver._

_"I'm not sure," said Hot Pie, "I just just overheard him talking to Yoren before you took us. Yoren was going to take him to his father's Bannermen."_

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!_

_"He doesn't look much like a lord," said Raff, "he looks like a miserable bandit cunt like the rest of you."_

_"Well he is," said Hot Pie, by now Gendry was next to Hot Pie begging him to sit down._

_"You know what fat boy. I don't care," said Polliver, "he could be Robb Stark's crippled brother for all I care. Tickler here is still going to skin him. As for you, I liked it better when you weren't talking." With that he whipped out Needle and Arya could only watch in horror as he flicked it across the boy's neck and Hot Pie collapsed drowning in his own blood. Minutes later Tywin Lannister had ridden into Harrenhall and set them free._

"The girl just did," said Jaqen and suddenly Arya wasn't sure if she'd just recounted the whole tale or if Jaqen had read it from her eyes, with the sky so overcast there was no way of knowing if moments or hours had passed. She didn't really care, whether she'd spoken or just re-lived events in her head, the numbing panic and terror had come back all the same. Followed by grief, grief for the boy who had stupidly tried to save her and grief for the friend she'd not been able to speak to again after that terrible day.

"Hmmm, girl what is your name?"

"What?" She said trying to focus on the present.

"Your name girl, tell a man your name."

"Weasel," she began.

"No, that is not a girl's name. Just a thought in her head whilst you were saying names for the Red God."

"Nan-,"

"A girl who served wine to her enemies, that is not you is it?"

"Arry," she said quietly

"That boy died in the pen at Harrenhall."

Arya didn't know why but she was crying again, she could feel the tears streaming down her face. "Arya, Arya Stark," she said, her voice trembling.

"Arya Stark, was a high born lady, daughter of the Hand of the King. Sister to the King in the North. Betrothed to a Frey lordling. Does that sound like a girl?"

"No," she sighed, "that's not me. That was who my mother and sister wanted me to be. I was the Arya Stark who could out ride her brothers, played with butcher's boy and learnt how to water dance."

"Just so, but can a girl be two people with the same name?"

"I don't know," said Arya sobbing now, "I don't think the girl who is standing here now can be that Arya Stark either. That girl would never have slit a man's throat because he was standing in front of a gate a girl needed to run through."

"A man saw the blood on your dagger. Maybe that was well done, after all this girl still lives to talk with a man; perhaps the girl who was Arya Stark would be dead."

"Perhaps I'm no one, the ghost of Harrenhall is all," she said quietly.

The man looked at her hard after she had said this running his eyes up and down her and then looking closely at the coin as if to read the inscription on it. Finally he looked back at her.

"No, the girl will never be no one," he sighed, "a pity but I don't think a man can make a deal with the girl."

"Thanks for nothing then," Arya replied bitterly mystified by his words.

"A man could give the girl a gift if she desired?"

"No I think I've had enough from you."

"Very wise," said Jaqen smiling, putting the coin back into a purse he had hung around his neck. "I think we shall not meet again lovely girl." He turned and started to walk away. Arya watched him go when suddenly he turned around, only the man who turned around was not Jaqen. This man had cropped dark hair, his skin was paler with a prominent hooked nose. He called out to her.

"Some advice lovely girl," his voice was deeper and rougher, "you are a creature of your Northern Gods but now the Red God has claimed you for his own as well. You are not no one. Perhaps one day you will find a way to be Arya Stark again, perhaps one day you will become someone new. Valar morghulis."

"Valar dohaeris," she replied, the words coming to her lips unbidden from where she knew not.

"Just so," said the man as he turned and walked away for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's Chapter 2 posted as well. That's as much as I want to post for now but check back next week or the week after for another two chapters. 
> 
> Anyway hope you're enjoying it so far if you've decided to read. 
> 
> Things start to move on quite quickly in Chapter 3 and 4.


	3. Ch 3: Duskendale

At first she hadn't known where she was after leaving Harrenhall she had just run. Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow. Over fields, fording streams, trapping rabbits and other small game in the woods, eating the meat raw as she had no flint to strike a fire; on the data she couldn't catch anything she made acorn paste. That life went on for weeks. 

After the first week she caught a glimpse of herself in a forest pool. The bruise covering most of her face had faded to a sickly looking yellow and a scar ran through it from her temple to her jaw. Her grey eyes were dull and weary and her hair, which had grown down to near her shoulders again, was matted and stinking. Checking carefully no one was around she peeled her clothes off and soaked them in the pool before removing them and washing herself. The sight of her body was alarming, she'd always been skinny but now she could see her bones taught against her skin. The same skin that was covered in cuts, sores and bites; she tried not to think about the creatures which must be living in her clothes which likely face her the bites. Whether it was being starved or just not her time she was relieved to find no signs that she was on the verge of flowering into a woman just yet. That was a relief, it would be safer to travel as a boy. To that end she grabbed her dagger and began hacking her hair off and close to her scalp as she dared. She looked into the pool again as the ripples settled and was pleased to see a scrawny peasant boy looking back. She had no way of drying her clothes so she just put them back on hoping they'd dry before it got dark and the temperature dropped.

Eventually after another ten day of wandering she found herself on a busy road. After some cautious enquiries and short replies she found she was in the Rosby Road. Behind her were Rosby and King's Landing, ahead was Duskendale, which seemed as good a place as any to make for. She knew, from half remembered lessons, that it was a busy port. Perhaps she could stow away and find a boat to White Harbour and get back to the North, although she remembered what Jaqen had said about a betrothal and hesitated. There would be ships to the free cities though - Pentos and Bravos - perhaps she could cross the narrow sea. With that thought in her head she set off for the port town.

Although the road was easier going than cross country there was no game to trap; the traffic scarring the small animals away or catching the meagre bounty long ago. As she travelled she could feel herself weakening, nights sleeping in ditches with one eye open and one hand on her dagger did little to improve matters. 

By the time the town came into view she was stumbling like a drunk. As she came up to the main gate she saw guards turning away beggars and refugees. She knew in her current state she would never be allowed in the town and that would mean death for her. She didn't have anything left to trek somewhere she might find game to catch or vegetables to glean. Forcing herself to stop and think rather than panic she looked around at the traffic on the road. 

Then she saw a carter behind her stop just under the crest of the hillock before the gate. She could see it but she thought the guards could not. Carefully, trying not to draw attention to herself she moved back towards it. To her relief the carter must have decided it was too busy and that he would sleep until it grew quieter. Quietly she ducked around the side of the cart so she was blocked as much as possible from view from the road. She dismissed the thought of hiding on top of the cart; both the carter and the guards would check there. Underneath the cart though the sides overhung the frame and axle by some distance. Enough for a skinny child to hide in the shadow of. Rolling quickly underneath so she was obscured by the wheels she took a harder look. She was lucky there was some piece of iron work she'd be able to use to pull her arms and torso close to the floor of the cart above. Quickly she removed her belt and guessed where her legs would reach to form it into a loop, driving her dagger through it and hard into the wood above. She held her breath praying the carter hadn't heard the thud of the knife. After a few moments when it became clear she hadn't she pulled herself up onto the axle ready to swing her legs through the loop of leather and pull herself flat with her arms the moment the cart made to leave.

She'd waited a couple of hours before there was any sign of movement. Snapping herself awake she pulled herself into position, legs flailing trying to find the loop she'd made, just before the cart set off. She could just see the feet of the carter's mule ahead of her but soon found herself using all her concentration maintaining her grip as the cart bounced on the uneven surface of the road.

By the time the cart stopped at the gate her breath was ragged and her muscles in her arms and stomach burnt Ruth the effort of holding herself flat. She forced herself to quiet her breathing and ignore the burning pain as she heard the carter talk with a guard whilst a second one circled the cart peering into the top of it. 

Just when she thought her arms would fail the cart started moving again and she was in. As soon as she felt the cart turn a corner she unhooked her legs and dropped into the cobblestones below. Quickly she dashed into the nearest alley she could see before collapsing against a cold stone wall into the gutter and sleep.

When she woke up her muscles were still screaming at her but now so was her stomach. She needed to eat soon or she'd not be able to stomach solid food and that would be the end. Looking up she saw the sun wasn't quite set, which meant there must be someone hawking food somewhere in this town as men sought their supper. 

As she walked down towards the docks, figuring that any evening trade would be happening there, she did a quick assay of her resources. She had no money, no weapon and only the clothes she was wearing to sell. The thick outer tunic might get a couple of pennies for at most given the state it was in but that would leave her cold come nightfall. She wondered if there would be any pigeons or gulls she could catch but this wasn't Flea Bottom and she didn't know whether any of the innkeepers here would give her a penny for one and besides the chances of her catching one in the state she was in were slim. No, she thought, thieving would be her best chance. Just something small that wouldn't be missed but would see her survive until morning.

As she approached the docks traders shops and stalls began to appear. She scanned each one looking for food sellers, a baker would be best; her body would need something plain we could keep down. Next she'd need somewhere busy she could slip amongst customers whilst the shopkeeper was distracted. Finally she would want something near an escape route, not that she knew the town but a dark alley to disappear into seemed a sensible precaution.

Ten minutes late though she was disappointed. This wasn't King's Landing; the stalls never grew thick and petered out soon after they appeared. Conscious now her scouting might be making her look suspicious she stopped and settled under the eaves of a squat building opposite the only stall she could see selling bread. Long thin loaves filled a basket hanging off the side of the stall. There wasn't much passing trade so the hopes of her lifting a loaf unnoticed were slim. There was an alley directly behind the stall though. She decided she would run at full pelt, swipe up a loaf and disappear into the alley. Hopefully the stall owner would be too apathetic to pursue her but she was confident even weakened as she was she'd be able to out pace him.

Her plan set, she took one last glance around checking for signs of guards and seeing none she dashed. In moments she was there her left hand grabbing and dragging a loaf, upending the whole basket as she did so. Behind her an enraged shout but she was already in the alley and dashing through hoping to cut out back onto a quiet road where she could blend in. Emerging opposite a busy tavern, with a sign made up of seven swords in a star, she was able to save through the clumsy bodies of the patrons mingling outside the door in the relatively warm evening air. Slowing, she pushed the loaf into her tunic and tried to walk as innocently as possible away. 

Eventually she found her way to the dockside. The activity here had eased for the evening and it would be hours before any fishing boats returned. Finding a quiet spot on the dockside want hard and she nestled herself between a pile of broken nets and a stack of pallets and turned her attention to the bread.

It was hard, not quite stale but no longer fresh, but had all the sweetness of another morning to come. She bit hungrily into it before remembering the need to control herself lest she make herself sick. After that she ate more slowly, chewing each bite carefully. As she did so she searched the ships at anchor, hoping to be able to spot a Bravosi or Pentoshi vessel but she soon realised she had no way of distinguishing them from any other. The only ship she could identify was an ageing cog with a black sail, which almost certainly was a ship of the Night's Watch; she had seen one docked at White Harbour when her father had taken her as a child. 

That trip seemed a lifetime ago. Then she rode with her father and his bannermen, never wanted for something to eat and would sleep in the New Keep in a fire warmed room. Here she was though stealing bread and preparing to sleep on a pile of fishing nets. Her clothes, although coarser, were as dirty ever she chuckled to herself.

She was just about to think about trying to get comfortable on the nets and steal some sleep when a voice rang out.

"That's the urchin, look at his face you can't miss him."

To her horror the stall holder had appeared with two guardsmen. She leapt to her feet preparing to run but stupidly there was only a jetty and the sea behind her. 

"Moro here says you spoiled a groat's worth of bread, street full of witnesses saw the boy with the bruised face do it," said the taller of the two guardsmen, "come with us quietly now lad. The Lord Rykker is quite fair. Don't give us any trouble and you'll still have nine fingers left on the morrow."

Arya gulped air. She was trapped. She could dive into the sea but where would she go, she knew she was still too weak to swim any useful distance. So she did the only thing she really knew how to do anymore and ran. She hit the taller guard at full pelt and bounced off and around him and carried in running. There was a splash behind her, she must have knocked him into the water, and cried for her to stop. She ignored them and sprinted from the docks towards the main road. Just as she was about to reach it another three guards appeared from a side street and quickly noticing the commotion began running towards her. She froze, looking for another route, she could hear boots catching up behind her. She spun round just in time for the butt of a pike to slam into her chest. She went down, writhing on the cobblestones, she just had time to look up to see the pike coming down before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So go on - have another chapter early.   
> The next chapter gets violent again just to warn you.


	4. Ch 4: Dun Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya faces the music...

She woke up in a cell. No surprises there she thought. The cell was small, a man would have been unable to stand or sit comfortably in it. She however was sat on the filthy reeds of the floor propped up against one of the wet stone walls. A trickle of light made it into the cell from a barred window at the top of the cell and a heavy banded oak door sealed it. There was a bucket in the far corner whose function was obvious. Hopefully they'd want to deal with her before she needed to use it. They were probably just waiting for her to regain consciousness before sentencing her, she thought as she drifted back into an uneasy sleep. 

Arya awoke again to a prod from a guards boot. She blinked her eyes open, bright sun now shone through the small window above illuminating two guards standing in the open door way with shackles.

"Come on, up and turn around with your hands behind your back."

Arya stood up and complied. Her hands were grabbed and manacles fastened around them. Then she felt hands grip her ankles and chains were fixed around her legs as well. 

"Seems a lot for a stolen loaf of bread," she remarked.

"It's too keep you getting yourself in any more trouble you daft kid," said one of the guards, not unkindly.

"How much trouble am I in?" she asked.

"You killed a man boy, there's not much deeper shit you could be in."

Arya's head whirled, surely they didn't know about the Lannister man at arms, or the Goldcloaks it even the stable boy back in King's Landing. They didn't even know who she really was. 

"I didn't kill anyone," she protested.

"Afraid you did boy," said the guard sadly, starting to march her out of the gaol, "what do you think happens when you push a man in chainmail into a deep harbour?"

Oh shit, Arya thought. "I didn't mean to," she said desperately, "I just wanted to get away."

"I know child," said the talkative guard, "people have done worse for a loaf of bread as well but them's the facts. Not anything you can do now but accept your fate like a man and hope the Seven save your soul."

"I keep the old gods," she mumbled numbly. They were going to hang her.

"Well I'm sure they'll look out for you," said the guard kindly.

She tried to remember who the lord here was, what his sigil looked like and what his house words were; if she knew maybe she could beg for mercy. Try as she might though the lessons from Maester Luwin just wouldn't come back to her. Her feet suddenly felt like lead, the heavy chains now suddenly pulled down on her like the grip of dead men. She stumbled and one of the guards, the quiet one, had to catch her and haul her up. 

As he did so he whispered into her ear, "There's a crow in town, beg to take the black and they might spare you; being so young and all." Then he straightened up and returned to stoic silence.

Eventually, the guards led her to a big set of double doors with crossed axe heads forming a door handle. Two other guards pushed the doors open and they led her into the centre of a great hall. Light streamed in from tall windows on two sides of the hall illuminating the blue saltire banners that hung from the rafters. At the end of the hall at the Lord's table sat an armoured man with only one leg, a crutch rested on the chair beside him, next to him a maester sat writing in a large book and surrounded by many others. On his other side sat an old man in the black of a brother of the Night's Watch. At the tables around the edges of the hall sat a great many other people - men at arms, knights and merchants and others Arya knew not.

She was led into a space in the centre of the hall which had evidently been cleared for her. The guards forced her to her knees but she remained looking up. If this lord was going to sentence her to death she'd at least make him look her in the eye.

"Right," said the one legged man, "let's get this over with then."

"Boy, you're to guilty of the manslaughter of Merys Waters, man at arms of the garrison of Dun Fort, and the theft on one loaf of bread to the value of a halfpenny and 'wanton' destruction of a groat's worth more and generally being a disturbance to the King's Peace. Plenty of witnesses saw you do it so there's no dispute as to guilt. Maester, what's the punishment for all that?"

"Well Ser Rufus, the Lord Rykker has," the maester started.

"Alright, I wasn't asking for a bloody lecture," he says grumpily. "Right," he continued, "I, Ser Rufus Leek, castellan of Dun Fort sitting in stead of Lord Rykker, sentence you, in the name of King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, to die. Guards take this urchin to the square and hang him."

Arya felt hands lift her up. "Wait!" She shouted, the guards stopped and the castellan looked up, not waiting for her to dismiss her she drove on, "please my lord, let me take the black." The old crow in the corner of the room turned to look at her.

"What would the Night's Watch want with a scrawny vagrant like you. You're not worth feeding."

Arya turned to the old crow desperately willing him to say something. After an age the old crow turned his gaze from her to the castellan.

"The Watch always needs men," said the old crow, "the young ones we can train up before they've learnt bad habits. Might be we have use for him and look at his face; the boy's clearly got some fight to him. Aye, we could use him Ser if you'll allow it."

"Maester," said the castellan, "what's the law then?"

"There is none Ser Rufus, it's considered a mercy and the boy is young," said the maester.

"Merys, was he popular? Family going to make trouble for me if I stay my hand?" Ser Rufus directed this at the guards holding her.

Arya, held her breath, her fate hung on how well liked this man had been.

"He was decent enough Ser Rufus," said the quiet guard, "but no family to speak of; he'd not long arrived from King's Landing."

"Very well," said the castellan, "boy I'm feeling generous you can take the black. Congratulations you'll get to live at least as long as it takes you to get to the wall."

"Thank you my lord," she breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Don't thank me yet," he said giving her a dark smile, "you're to be branded a murderer so if you ever desert the wall and your brothers don't kill you you'll be known as an escaped killer and hung like one. Furthermore, there's still the matter of your thieving."

"Ser," said the old crow, "the boys no use to me with one hand."

"Don't worry, crow, we don't make it so thieves could never earn a honest living here," then turning to her, "fifty lashes, seven for each of the seven and one for his grace."

Arya gasped, she wasn't going to hang but the whipping might kill her anyway. She had seen a man flogged in Winter Town; her and Bran had snuck out of the castle and had observed it hidden in the roof of an inn. The man's back had been bloody half way through his sentence and eventually he'd passed out. She had thought he had died until after they'd finished they had poured a bucket of brine over his back and he'd woken up with a howl of pain. He'd passed out again soon after and had to be carried away.

She was led out of the great hall and out of the castle to the town square. Three men were busy erecting a post in the centre of the square. She guessed that's where she was going to be whipped. There was also a brazier - grimly she wondered whether she'd be whipped or branded first. She tried to tell herself she had survived the beating Yoren had given her but she also remembered how she had got that by laying Hot Pie out and the days he'd taken to recover; she knew what she would receive would be worse than what she had been given our had given herself. Her legs felt weaker the closer she got; the post was upright now. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, she wouldn't be dragged to her fate at least. Besides her the old crow appeared matching her pace.

"That's it lad, back straight and head up. You're a canny one, you'll survive this," then holding up a bottle to her lips, "drink much of this as you can."

She opened her mouth and gulped it down. The liquid burned but she kept swallowing until the crow withdrew the empty bottle. "Black tar rum," said the crow, "it won't hurt less but you'll remember less of it, that'll help in the long run."

She really was staggering now and her head was swimming. The two guards moved her to the post and unshackled her hands. One of them told her to take off her tunics. She did so knowing that if she didn't she'd be inviting infection into the wounds which were about to be inflicted on her: there was nothing about her body which would give her lie away either. The guards tied her arms together around the post and then retreated.

Arya could see two men approach, one carried a seven stranded whip, each strand knotted several times, the man carrying it looked like a sellsword; but he was young and looked nervous. The other man was dressed in the threadbare robes of a begging brother. He approached her.

"Seven blessings child," he said. "Sadly I am not a Septon so I can't absolve you of your sins."

"Thank you, but I follow the old gods," she replied, but then thinking it ill to refuse a kindness, "but thank you for the blessing regardless."

"You're welcome child. Here bite down hard on this," he said placing a rolled strap of leather into her mouth, "it'll save your tongue."

Then turning to the sellsword he said quietly, "fifty lashes may well kill the boy. Look at the size of him. I'm sure the Father would still think it just if every other stroke was to fall short."

"Aye, I will do my best brother," she was relieved to hear him say, "but first I need to brand him."

The sellsword went to the brazier and removed an iron brand with the letter 'm' on the end. "It's 'm' for murderer," he said walking over and behind her, "I'm going to do it on the back of your neck. It'll hurt like hell but you can grow your hair out to cover it."

Arya could feel her breathing come quick and shallow as she bit down hard on the leather strap bracing herself for the brand. I'm as hard as stone, standing straight as an oak, she thought, hard as stone, straight as oak, hard as stone, straight as oak. The pain came with a sickening which made her whole body spasm against the post. The strap fell out of her mouth as she screamed and yet somehow she could still here the sound of her flesh cooking. Then just when she thought she'd pass out the brand was withdrawn and the begging brother rushed forward and poured a skin of water over the burnt flesh. He then reached down and retrieved the leather strap and placed it back in her mouth.

"Please," he said, "try not to drop it whilst they flog you. Bite hard and don't give the crowd the satisfaction of hearing you scream again."

She had only been dimly aware of the crowd around the square but now through her tear filled eyes she could see them. Scores of people gathered around to watch the show, a few guards keeping them at a distance. They were laughing and jeering and generally seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. 

As they grew quiet Arya realised the flogging must be about to begin. She bit down hard and held on tightly to the post trying to control her breathing. She knew her mantra had been useless, she tried to just put her mind out of her body. She imagined herself as one of the cards stalking across one of the rooftops that surrounded the square. 

Looking out of her eyes she could see the small crowd of people below, laughing and joking with each other, the smells of food rising up from amongst them. Tearing her attention away from the food smells, she looked into the square, edging as close to the gutter as she dared to get a better view. She could see a girl child bound to a post surrounded by men. The child was emaciated, her ribs prominent with each of the quick breaths she took. The child's hair had been hacked unevenly close to her head and her face was scarred and bruised. A fresh wound smoldered on the nape of the child's neck. The child was staring blankly at the crowd, her eyes glazed. Behind her one of the men was returning with a whip in his hands, the man looked at another man wearing frayed robes, who nodded, and then raised his whip hand.

The pain brought her back into her head, exploding across her back, she bit hard into the leather her scream muffled by it. Moments later there was a sharp crack but no corresponding blossoming of pain and she realised that the sellsword was doing as the brother had asked and was not landing every stroke. Although, that was scant comfort as the next strike connected and she howled out again.

After the twentieth blow had landed her legs collapsed from under her. Her face was wet with tears and she could feel blood run down her back. Her heart was hammering hard against her chest and her breathing was laboured, each breath pulling against the new wounds on her back. The begging brother came forward to help her regain her feet. "Not many more now," he reassured her.

She planted her feet as solidly as she could and pulled herself tight to the post again. The final blows came fast neither giving her time to recover or collapse again. Then a final moment of intense pain as the brine was poured over her back, which caused her finally to scream again, dropping the leather strap which she'd nearly bitten through, and her legs to give way. She sunk to her knees whimpering as her hands were freed from round the post. 

The begging brother approached her again. "I have some salve I can apply to ward off infection and help with the healing. It will hurt though."

"What's a bit more pain," she answered grimly. It did hurt as the brother applied his poultice but not nearly as much as the flogging had done. She was able to grit her teeth and remain silent as the brother worked the poultice into her wounds and bound her back and neck with bandages. Finally her tunics were handed to her, and with one final jolt of pain as she raised her arms, her ordeal was over. "You will be scarred," said the brother, "but keep the wounds as clean as you can and you should stave off infection." He left her then and the guards shackled her hands again before removing her leg irons. They led her over to a corner of the rapidly emptying square where the old crow had been watching from.

"You did alright lad. I thought you might shit yourself but you held together just about," he laughed. 

"I think you'll do well in the Watch if you survive long enough to get trained up. Anyway come along, we're going to sail out of here before someone tells that mardy one legged bastard the sellsword sold you short of some lashes. Think he was hoping you'd die of the flogging. Gives him the opportunity to look merciful for sparing you the noose but without leaving you alive to trouble him again. Anyway don't expect any special treatment on account of your condition, you'll get none at the wall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a bit extreme....
> 
> ....anyway back to Eastwatch next


	5. Ch 5: Eastwatch II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Arya finally properly joins the Nightwatch

Arya was led through the keep, carrying her new bundle of clothes and furs, by a young ranger called Bryn. He looked a year or two older than her, just starting to come into himself as a man and looking awkward for it. He had a shock of russet hair which grew thick and messily and the beginnings of a beard to match.

He chatted to her as they walked about the Eastwatch: how Cotter Pyke, the commander, was a mad old pirate, how they were all sick of herring and how lucky she'd been to arrive on a mutton stew day, where the latrines were and how reprimanded recruits were punished by having to dig out that cesspits. "Try to behave," he said, "believe me, with two hundred men eating mostly herring, it's a job you never want."

"Skill at arms training is done by Ser Olyvar. He's alright - he can teach you how to shoot straight and swing a sword but he's getting on a bit so don't expect much hands on instructions. Cotter will probably pasture him out as soon as some knight has the misfortune to be sent here. Not been any of them in a while though ended up here."

"Mostly," he continued, "it's about the sea here. Lots of recruits go into the stewards: as sailors, sealers or fishers. Less builders needed here as we've only got one direction to maintain. Cotter sends out his share of rangers though make no mistake."

By now they had passed through several sections of the keep, unlike most of the castles in the wall Eastwatch had been built with walls around it, no doubt because of the frequent raids from wildlings sailing around the bay of seals. They finally seemed to have reached their destination though as Bryn pointed out a squat wooden barrack block.

"This is where you'll be billeted," he said, "all the young ones stop here. When you're older you'll get a room inside the keep."

He led her inside the wooden building. A fire burned in a large central hearth with the smoke rising up out of a large open chimney. Tables and benches were arranged in a square around the fire. "Us young ones all mess here, Cotter says he can't stand the chatter, we only eat in the hall if something big is going down. Anyway, I'll show you where you can bed down."

All around the room were what Arya thought must have been cupboards but when Bryn led her over to one and slid the door open they revealed themselves to be tiny rooms: the whole length formed a cot, with a generous pile of woollen blankets piled on top of the mattress, and just enough space between it and the door for her to stand. Above the cot at one end was a small shelf with a recess for a candle and at the other a small locker.

"Right," said Bryn, "I expect you'll be wanting some rest after the journey you've had. They're small digs but that means they get warm at least. No one will be looking for you today, you'll hear when it's dinner if you're awake, after today you'll need to help with it, but I don't wake you for it. We wake at 5 bells."

"Thanks," she said realising it was the first word of reply she'd made during the whole exchange, "I'm Torrhen."

"No problem, Torrhen," he grinned, "it's a bit overwhelming arriving here, particularly when you're didn't want to be here in the first place but hey it's better here than Castle Black or Shadow Tower."

With that he left her and Arya slid the door shut. Deciding to take his advice about sleep she took her new furs and clothes stowed then in the locker before peeling off her ruined shoes, grateful for the stout pair of winter boots she'd been given, and slipping under the blankets. The mattress was only straw but after weeks on the bare floor of the cog it was luxury. 

True to his word there was a rapping on her door before first light. She slid it aside to see Bryn. "You'll want to change out of those," he said looking at her tunic, "you've taken the black now after all." 

"Hang on," she said blearily sliding the for closed behind her. She pulled off her tunics and breeches before remembering her bandages. Figuring she was probably as healed now as she was going to be she slowly peeled them off well. She could feel the raised scars across her back and the 'm' on her neck and wished she had a looking glass, or two she supposed, so she could see the damage. Sighing she started to feel the chill leach into her and decided she couldn't attend around in her small clothes all day. She pulled on the think wool leggings she been given, black of course, and then a new pair of black breeches over them. A thick long sleeved woollen tunic followed and then a padded short sleeved leather outer tunic. Then she pulled on the knee length boots she'd been given, which amazingly fit. Finally, thinking how cold she'd been yesterday she grabbed the fur lined cloak as well. The cloak would hide her brand, she didn't expect to be able to hide it long but at least dealing with the reactions wouldn't be her first experience of life here. She opened the door again to see Bryn waiting for her.

"Morning," he said, handing her a mug of small beer, "come on let's get going, I'll explain what's what as we go." 

He explained the routine for the young brothers to her as she drank and followed him out into the barracks and wider keep: someone would be detailed to fetch wood from the store for the fire, tomorrow that would be her, whilst others would get it lit and others would clean. The remainder were sent off around the keep for duties according to their order. Stewards to the kitchens or cold stores to prepare the days dinner or butcher meat, or were sent down on the docks gutting and salting the morning catch. Rangers would head to the armoury to mend and clean armour, sharpen weapons or fletch arrows. Builders always had duties helping the older brothers carry out repairs somewhere on the keep our the wall. Whilst sailors, who were unique to Eastwatch, would be sent to assist maintaining the cogs and the galleys of the fleet. Recruits like her were assigned to clean, she'd been starting with the stables.

After their morning duties everyone came back to the keep for dinner and then there was training. For the recruits that was weapons training every day. One they'd taken their vows and been assigned to an order every other day would be training in the skills needed for that order. Weapons training continued indefinitely, although once the master at arms had deemed you proficient you were free to train as you liked.

Bryn told her there weren't many other young recruits here, most had been sent to Castle Black. She'd only stayed because Cotter had put his foot down about how his command was getting to be senile old men and the Lord Commander had let him keep the next two boat loads of young ones. Unfortunately she'd been the only boy to arrive with the first ship. Still Bryn said there were about a dozen all under fifteen years. Five others beside Bryn, three recruits recently arrived and two other new brothers, both gone into the builders: she'd meet them all at dinner.

She was deposited at the stables where a middle aged brother pointed her in the direction of a shovel and she began mucking them out. It was hard work and her breath was steaming after half an hour but it wasn't so bad and she enjoyed seeing the garrons and giving them the occasional stroke.

She was beginning to wonder when the morning shift ended and how she would find her way back for dinner when she heard Bryn call her.

"That mark what I think it is?" He asked.

Her hand shot up to cover her neck, she'd taken her cloak off as she'd warmed up from the work.

"It was an accident," she said, "knocked a man in mail into the sea when I was running away."

"Right," said Bryn, then after an awkward silence, "born on the wrong side of the sheets me."

"My brother is a bastard as well, it shouldn't mean anything," she replied.

"Aye, it shouldn't but it does. Ask your brother if he was welcome in your family."

They walked back to the barracks in silence. When they entered the other five boys were already sat around one of the tables. "This is Torrhen," Bryn called out, "he's new." Bryn then took her along the table introducing her. 

First was a lanky dark haired youth called Hoster, he just grunted at her before returning to his food, he was one of the builders and would soon be leaving the barracks for the main keep. Next to him was a younger boy with fair hair called Jonty. He seemed friendly enough. Then there was the second builder Marq; clean shaven with curling shoulder length brown hair and a sturdy framed build, he looked of an age with Bryn. He gave her a friendly nod but returned to his food rather than engage in conversation. The final two boys were about her age and looked brothers in truth both with short cropped black hair, although one was brown eyed and the other green. They introduced themselves:

"I'm Davy," said green eyes. "And I'm Ben," said the others. "We were both tricksters in Oldtown before a sharp eyed maester noticed our eyes and rumbled or scam. What you here for then Torrhen?"

Arya hesitated, but before she could answer Bryn did, "He's a killer so watch yourselves you two. Any tricks and you'll wind up dead," he said, his voice filled with false menace.

"Truly?" Davy asked her.

"It was an accident," she said aware of the attention of the others in the room. "I'd stolen a loaf and trying to escape I knocked a guard into the sea. His mail drowned him."

"Serious," said Ben, "that's not so scary Bryn. Any of us could have done that, who hasn't knocked over a flat footed guard." This drew some laughter from the others. "Sent you here then did they? You were lucky, most lords woulda just strung you up."

"I was I guess," she replied, "there was a wandering crow in town at the time which helped, and I still got a brand and a flogging."

"Pretty harsh, if they were already sending you here," said Marq from across the table. "When the king beyond the wall comes we're as good as dead anyway."

"There ain't no king beyond the wall," said Jonty nervously, "just something they made up to keep us on our toes."

"Ha you're a fool," laughed Hoster, "why do you think trade with the wildlings dried up? They're planning something big."

"Trade with the wildlings?" Arya asked.

"Sure," replied Bryn, "they're just men and so long as there not trying to get through the wall and we're not trading them weapons then why not? Where do you think that fur comes from. There's not enough of us left to hunt and trap as well as man the wall."

"Nice story arse licker, except everything they trade with us they were trading back to smugglers for weapons anyway," barked Hoster. "Now they got enough they'll attack. Mark my words. You're all fucked, they'll come with men and giants and wargs and worse and overwhelm us all in hours. You all need to be thinking about how you're going to get out before they come."

"They execute deserters," Arya pointed out, thinking back to the man Bran, Jon and Robb had seen her father sentence.

"You they might," laughed Hoster, "with your brand you're never leaving this wall but the rest of us, well Jonty hasn't said his vows and is as pure as a maid on her wedding night so he can just leave. Me and the others, it's just picking the right moment to slip away on the right trading boat."

"Ignore him," said Bryn, "he's always been a prick and if I ever looks like deserting I'll kill him myself."

"I'd like to see you try Bryn," said Hoster leaping to his feet.

"Just leave it you both," said Jonty, "you can beat the crap out of reach other in the practice ring later." Turning to Torrhen, he said, "here it's kippers and black bread with a ration of butter," handing her a plate.

She took it and day down next to Ben and Davy who proceeded to quiz her about her life. She hadn't really had time to thought up a cover story but she ploughed on with a take she thought likely. Torrhen was a lowborn bastard from the riverlands. His father was a northerner who left as soon as she got pregnant. His mother died in childbirth a few years later. He'd been moving between towns as he thieved and begged his living. As far a Arya could tell her story was accepted without question.

\--------------------

The master of arms was an elderly knight called Ser Olyvar Blackwood, a riverlander by birth Arya thought he would certainly die this winter at the wall. His breathing was heavy and laboured and he leant heavily on the trail of the training ring, weighed down by his armour. Still, his mind was sharp and she could tell from what she observed as she approached the training yard that he was a good instructor as he barked criticism and encouragement in equal measure at the men and boys practising.

Arya was taken up to him by Bryn. Who tapped him on the shoulder. "Ser Olyvar, the new recruit."

"The murderer aye," he said with a tone of menace, looking Arya up and down, "what's your name killer?"

"Torrhen ser," she replied, "and it was manslaughter, it was an accident."

"That one maybe," he said, "but he wasn't the first man you've killed was he boy, just the one you were caught for."

Arya didn't reply but stared hard at the old man trying to figure out of he really knew something.

"You're wondering how I know" he chuckled. "Live on the wall as long as I have you get a sense for death, it's, " he paused, "uncanny."

"Regardless," he continued, "whether I'm right or not, here you are and you need training no doubt. Today I'll just see what you're about." He went back to staring hard at her. Arya, by now thoroughly fed up with this exchange, stared back defiantly.

"Let's see if you can shoot first, might be that's what a lad your size is going to be most use for."

She was pointed towards the archery buts and a short bow and quiver placed in her hands. "Start at the thirty yard mark." She was confident in her skills having bested Bran's performance many times. She was even sure she'd could have out shot Jon and Robb at a fair right distance. She stood at the mark, fingered an arrow on her left hand and drew the bow. It wasn't a heavy draw, just a simple hunting bow and this was the range it would likely be effective at in most hands. Carefully lining up her shot, compensating slightly for the drop, she loosed. The arrow hurtled into the centre of the target just as she had intended.

"Good," said the knight, "try fifty."

She stepped back to the fifty yard mark. This would be more difficult but not impossible. She had to be careful not to try and over draw but rather aim the flight of the arrow so the drop brought it back on target. She composed herself and loosed again. Another thwack and she watched the arrow land just off centre.

"Not bad at all," said Ser Olyvar, "not your first time with a bow. See if you can hit from a hundred yards."

A small crowd had gathered round by now. Arya wanted to protest, while you could use a short bow over this range it would be for area of effect not picking off a target. Still she walked back to the hundred yards mark determined to land the arrow on the butt. This time she have to draw the bow as far as she possibly could. Fully extended she lined up her shot and loosed. The arrow sailed in a high parabola through the air and struck the top left corner of the target.

"You're either lucky, a natural or you've trained with a bow before," says the old knight. "No matter, someone fetch me the YiTish bow." A few minutes later a recurved bow was placed in the old knights hands. "This is going to be yours," he said, "not sure if it is YiTish or whether it's a replica but your going to learn it. You're clearly a good shot but a short bow is of little use here and I don't reckon your going to grow big enough to draw a longbow. This will give you nearly the same range and power. Go on give it a go."

Arya took the bow and went back to the fifty yard mark. This time she struggled to draw it and when she loosed her shot fell wide and short. The knight laughed but called: "You need to build up your strength. Shoot fifty each day at least. Anyway stash that away and let's see if you've got an aptitude for blades."

Bryn took her over to a small store where the practice equipment was kept. "That was pretty amazing. I've been here three years and I can still barely hit the target." He handed her a short wooden practice sword and made to pull her out some wooden practice armour. She stopped him.

"Ser Olyvar is right, I'm not going to grow big, and I'll never carry plate or mail; best I learn to not get hit in the first place than rely on armour."

"You sure," he said skeptically.

"Sure," she replied.

With the sword in her hand she stepped out into the practice ring. Hoster was waiting for her. "Ser Olyvar, must want you taught a lesson, stop you getting to big for your boots after your lucky shots." The boy had a wooden version of a longsword and held it like he knew what he was doing.

Arya, slipping easily back into the water dancer's stance, just nodded at him to begin. He was at her quickly and she was hard pressed to dodge and weave through his blows. Eventually she spotted an opening and parried one of his strokes, strong inside his reach and swinging her own blade round to thrust towards his ribs. He just managed to side step and her blue glanced off his practice armour. After that though he redoubled his efforts and his blows came fast and heavy. She caught an overhead stroke with her sword but the force of it pushed her to her knees. She tried to roll away to the side but he caught her back with a kick making her gasp in pain from her wounds and fouling her roll. She was finding her feet when the sword connected with the side of her head knocking her to the ground and making her vision blurry.

"Enough," shouted Ser Olyvar, "you're meant to be sparring not killing Hoster."

"You," he said to her. "I think you're done for today. By the looks of your face you've had too many blows to the head lately. Next time you spare you put on s helmet at least. Go and learn how to string that bow"

"Where did you learn that," hissed Bryn, "first the bow and you even held your own against Hoster with the sword."

"Nowhere, guess I'm just a natural," she replied.

"No one's a natural at this stuff, and definitely not beggar boys from the riverlands," he said marching off. Suddenly Arya was left wondering if she'd made a stupid mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magic and Mysticism next...


	6. Ch 6: The Weirwood Grove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have Bravosi, the Old Gods and Rangers

Arya settled into get new routine of duties and training at Eastwatch over the next couple of months. She got more proficient with the recurved bow and was able to keep up her practice with the sword. Training under Ser Olyvar she had been able to pick up a few insights for fighting a heavily armoured opponent although on the whole the Bravosi style of fighting mystified the old knight. Some tough lessons from Holster, who it seemed had come to hate her, had convinced her that against a larger, armoured opponent she would stick to the bow; with the sword her weapon of last resort. 

Her back had finally healed fully leaving her with a nasty pattern of scars and she was growing her hair out to hide the brand. She'd settled on aiming for a shoulder length style she remembered her father having as a compromise between covering the scar and not looking to overtly feminine. Her twelfth name day had been and gone, and regular meals and exercise were also agreeing with her; she was looking less emaciated - although she still hadn't gotten significantly taller, or, to her relief, any more womanly.

She had also settled into a wary friendship with Ben, Davy and Jonty but Bryn had remained politely standoffish since that first training session. She had been foolish to show off and hadn't thought how it might cast doubt on her adopted persona. The damage had been done so she carried on and the other boys, with the exception of Hoster, didn't seem to think anything out of the ordinary (she didn't know what the older brothers and the officers were thinking though and that worried her). She definitely didn't want to get to attached again, the wall was a dangerous place and one of them was bound to be killed or abandon her and she really didn't want that again. Still Life here was comfortable enough and whilst she didn't seek deep friendship she was happy to have people to talk with over meals and argue with about chores. She would like to have seen Jon again but she was certain she would eventually; she he had heard he was the steward to the Lord Commander, when she had taken her vows she'd get to go to Castle Black eventually. Strangely, although she would not have chosen her path here, and knowing that one day she'd be found out and it would end, life at the wall was what she had always wanted for herself. 

That morning as she lay the days fire and helped herself to a mug of small beer, her quiet contentment was shattered. Marq and Jonty came back until the barrack hell chatting.

"The Ironborn burnt it," said Marq.

"But how did they take it in the first place, they're not known for besieging?" asked Jonty.

"They wouldn't have needed to, the young wolf marched his army south and Greyjoy grew up there; knew it's ins and outs."

"You're talking about Winterfell? What's happened," she knew she shouldn't but she couldn't help herself. Gripping the table firmly and commanding her voice not to shake.

"Aye," Marq replied, "it's fallen. Theon Greyjoy turned his cloak on Robb Stark and sacked it."

"And Br...," she stopped herself, "I mean the broken lordling and his brother?"

"Dead I heard, killed and their bodies burnt."

Arya choked back her tears, gripping the table harder so the edge cut into her and concentrating on that. "Only a coward kills children," she said eventually, her voice cold and enraged.

"Then there must be no shortage of cowards in the world as there was no shortage of murdered children where I grew up," Marq said grimly.

She nodded at that not trusting herself to say more and then got up to leave. "Where you off to?" called Bryn full where he'd been sitting in the corner, "storms brewing up best to stay inside, normal duties suspended until it passes remember.."

"Stables, need to check the horses are ok for the storm," she grunted and hurried out before anyone else could try to talk to her. She ran through the keep, the wind was whipping up and snow was beginning to flurry around her. She ran as hard as she could to the stables and once inside busied herself making sure she the horses had water and feed and did her usual job of mucking them out. By the time she had finished the snow was falling hard outside. She was glad, no one would come look for her in the storm. She sat down in corner of the pen of the bay garron who had become her favourite and wept for her brothers. She wept that the idiot Theon, who she remembered being so close to Robb, was now another name she had to hate and kill if she could. She had lost her father, Nymeria, Bran and Rickon. Her pack was dying, and Sansa and her mother weren't wolves like the others. She should find Jon; for the first time she felt restricted by life at the wall. She wanted to just ride off and make for Castle Black but she was attainted and marked as such. Even if she hadn't taken her vows the wall was the only place for her now; at least until she was discovered. She hoped to put that day off as long as she could and well she was at the Wall, the only place on Westeros she could escape to was on the other side of it. She'd have figured something out by then though; maybe Robb would be back by then, retaken Winterfell and able to pardon her for everything that had happened in the South.

Just then something spooked the bay and she leapt up to calm it. As the horse settled under her hands and gentle murmurs she saw a figure staggering across the yard in the full face of the storm. The wind had whipped up and the flotsam of castle life was being thrown across the yard coming in and out of vision as they were swept through the flurries of falling snow. One piece struck the figure and he didn't get up again. Cursing, she went to open the stable door, Already it was a struggle and in a few minutes the snow would have built up so high as to make it impossible. Still she managed and was soon dashing across the yard, a hand raised protectively to shield her head. She reached the man and saw immediately it was Ser Olyvar. The debris had missed him but shattered his crutch leaving him unable to get up. She reached down and hauled him up to a sitting position

"Hang on," she shouted over the gale, "I'm too small to carry you or for you to lean on. I'm going to have to drag you." Grabbing him under each arm she slowly hauled him back towards the stable. It was slow going but they made it back to the stables. Arya pulled him inside and then shut the door against the wind. 

"Thanks lad," said the knight, "I owe you. I know I'm not long for this world but that would have been a shambolic way to go out, frozen to death yards from safety all because I'm so old I need to piss more than any man should."

Arya laughed at that, "no thanks needed Ser, I'm just glad you've only got one leg or you might have been to heavy to drag."

"Ha yes you're right about that. You must be the tiniest lad I've ever taught to wield a sword, although I'd say I'm not the first am I?"

"No," she said suddenly cautious.

"Probably for the best, you probably shouldn't be taking lessons from a man who got his leg chopped off by a wildling."

"Really?"

"Well it was the maester who took it off but the wildling's axe did the damage."

"That must have hurt."

"Aye, that maester was a brute with the saw," he laughed, "it still does you know, hurt that is, even though the leg is twenty years gone some days I still feel it there throbbing like the bastards axe is still in it."

They sat in silence for a while after that. Arya went to the to the horses checking on them and fussing her favourite. It was hard now, she had run through the storm here to be alone with her grief until she could master it. After the initial rush of saving the old knight the black thoughts started entering her head again.

"Something's troubling you," he said eventually.

"There's nothing," she said trying to brush it off.

"Obviously is as you've not looked this way in half an hour and I know I'm not that hideous even old with only one leg."

"It's nothing," she said firmly. Silence descended between them again.

"Listen," he said after ten minutes, "you don't have to talk about it but we should talk. It's not freezing here but the cold is still leaching into my bones and I'd rather have some distraction, we might be here days yet - would be if this were winter proper."

She didn't say anything, but she did turn to look at him. Apparently that was all the invitation he needed, Arya thought guys persona here was very different from the one he used on the training ground, and said so.

"Well, that's just because you're still only half grown you can't believe old men weren't born that way," he laughed, then turning slightly more serious, "look, there I'm trying to give you advice that might stop you getting killed. It's a serious business and needs to be taken seriously by both me and you lot. Outside of the training yard, I laugh and joke like everyone else."

"Did you know I'm not really a knight," he said.

"Why do you call yourself one then?"

"It wasn't me, it's all you northerners think anyone highborn from South of the neck must be at least a knight."

"And you're not, highborn?"

"Ha no I am, blood of the first men and all that. Son of the son of a lord, classic knightly material really."

"Then why aren't you?"

"I'm a Blackwood, like you we keep the old gods, last that do almost in the riverlands, and you can't be a knight without swearing to the Seven."

"Ok," she said, "but then answer my first question why does everyone call you one?"

" Simple," he laughed, "because I don't correct them."

She grinned at him, thinking she was only here because people assumed she was a boy. She wasn't sure why, but she decided to open up just a chink in her armour. "Is there a Godswood here?"

"No, the keeps came after the weirwoods, you need to go north of the wall to find one; it's a bit of a trek from here. You want to pray?"

"Yes," she admitted, "I found out two of my brother's, my blood, had died in a fire."

"That explains why you're camping out in a stable during the first autumn storm," he said,"listen, I've not gone to pray since I lost my leg but when you get to the point you can see the end of the road, like I have, your mind turns back to gods and the like. Figure I could use some praying myself, but I'd need someone to take me."

Arya looked at him hard trying to work the old man out. She couldn't think of why he would help her or even if he was serious about wanting to visit the weirwoods himself. She couldn't think of a reason to say no though and part of her powerfully wanted to pray to the Old Gods. It wasn't just the need to mourn Bran, Rikkon and her father; nor could she pray for the safety of her mother and sister, the old gods' sway didn't reach to the South anymore. No, ever since her encounter with Jaqen something about his talk of the Red God's mark had disturbed her; if she was honest, she wanted to know if the Old Gods still held sway on her soul.

"I could help," she said finally, "if you like."

"Excellent, ones this storm blows over I'll talk to Cotter. We'll need a couple of others with us and a sled so it might take some time to arrange. Try not to mope your days away or get into any trouble before then."

\---------------------

In the end it took a couple of weeks for the skies to clear and the maester to agree they had a decent window of good weather to make the journey. The weirwood grove was a couple of leagues into the forest; with the sledge they would make it in a day just and then need to camp before heading back the next day.

When Arya, arrived Old Olyvar, as she had taken to calling him, was sitting on a sledge loaded with tents and gear. He had a crossbow slung across his back and a dagger in a scabbard at his belt. He saw her staring and laughed, "You don't expect to go north of the Wall unarmed now do you. Get yourself off to the armoury, collect your bow and a good supply of arrows and pick up a short sword and see if they have a jack that might fit you. Then go fetch that bay you're so fond of, I'm guessing you ride young Torrhen, gods know who taught you."

She nodded and hurried off. When she returned she was wearing a small leather jack of plate that had been dug out of a backroom (probably some lordling's who was sent here decades ago said the armourer). It was stiff and heavy on her but left her arms and legs full range of movement and she guessed might turn away a sword or spear thrust. She had strapped the sword across her back and had found a saddle with a mount for her bow and arrows in the stable. She rode comfortably back into the yard in front of the main gate. Two other men had joined Olyvar, one was Bryn who was hitching a mule to Olyvars sled. 

He looked up at her on the horse and raised an eyebrow. "You ride as well?" 

"Apparently," she replied.

The other man was already mounted and rode up beside her. He was dark haired, tall and swarthy with a thick moustache, although no beard. When he spoke he reminded her of Syrio.

"You are wondering what a Bravo like myself is doing at the wall, no?" He laughed, "most do the first time they meet me."

"Go on then," said Arya impatiently.

"Bad luck!" He grinned. "I am Menos, once a Bravo of that same great city, now sadly reduced by misfortune and misadventure, to being a humble ranger here on this gods forsaken Wall."

"I'm Torrhen. What misadventure landed you here," she asked, amused despite herself.

"It's a long story my boy, that bares telling over good wine and fine food," he grinned, "alas, we have neither here so I'll give you the taste of it at least. Let us just say, when you arrive by boat be very sure you don't miss your sailing when you've just bedded a great lord's wife."

She laughed at that and he returned her mirth with a deep laugh of his own. "Don't be fooled," called up Olyvar, "he might still act like a Bravo but he's a brother like us now. One of the best rangers there is here."

"So it is said, my friend," he replied. "I am glad to have returned to make this trip with you. Ser Olyvar, was the man who taught me to fight like a Westerosi, one day I may forgive him for it. He tells me though that you know the water dance, or part of it at least."

Arya nodded.

"Very curious young Torrhen," he smiled, "perhaps on our journey you can reacquaint me with some of the steps."

Bryn finished hitching the mule to the sledge and turned to them as they readied to set off. 

Turning to the group he said. "Cotter gave me a message about him to give you all." He said poitning at Arya and taking out a piece of paper in the maester's hand.

"Well, go on lad, we've not got all day," said Olyvar.

"You want me to read it in front of him?"

"Why not, if he was here he'd say it in front of him. Cotter doesn't really do niceties."

"Cotter, to Menos and Olyvar. I wish you a safe journey. Winters coming in fast and I'm not sure when we'll be able to spare the men again to travel just to pray. The boy's not even half trained, from what I've seen of him though someone else has already given him the other half, so whilst you're there have him say his words. If he doesn't, carry out his sentence and burn his body."

"You ready to say your oath lad," asked Olyvar.

"Does it matter," she replied.

"No, not really if you want to live."

"Well, let's get going then," she said riding off towards the gate.

"I like this one," laughed Menos and then he put a horn to his lips and blew. Ahead of her the keeps main gate swung open revealing a tunnel through the wall. The far gate the merest point of light at the other side.

\---------------

They quickly covered the ground between the wall and the edge of the forest and were soon deep in it's gloom. The weak sun dappled the snow as it penetrated the fir needles. The forest was eerily silent, there was little sound even of birds and small animals that filled the silence in the Wolf's Wood back at Winterfell.

As they walked Menos and Olyvar quizzed her on her knowledge of trapping and hunting. Arya tried to explain where she would set traps and why, how she went about skinning small game, what she had learnt was safe to eat from forage. Most of what she said was met with silent approval. Occasionally one of the other men would suggest a different strategy, better suited to the haunted forest. The game here was bigger, wilder than South of the wall. Great horned deer that dwarfed the red deer she knew and moved in herds as large as armies. Direwolves, which she knew all about, and in the far north great white bears fiercer then any brown bear south of the wall.

Menos, also encouraged her to try shooting from horseback. "You use the right bow for it and it's always useful to be able to do something your enemy will not expect." She found he was right and that firing while mounted was relatively straightforward once she found how to set herself to be able to draw the bow. It was just a matter of adjusting for the movement of the horse then. Firing on the move would be trickier, but Menos told her it was common in Essos for men to fight that way. She would need to learn to control the horse with just her legs though. Once she'd taken her vows she'd be allowed to request regular access to a horse, Menos said, so she should have the opportunity to practice.

It was late in the afternoon by the time they reached the weirwoods. Menos got them to strike camp before they lost the light. Between them they unpacked a large tent from the sledge and filled it with furs which had been stowed in the box Olyvar had been sat on. Once the tent was up Menos sent her to gather wood and kindling with instructions not to stray out of sight of the tent. They had brought wood with them but she saw the sense in preserving their supply of dry wood lest another storm came on.

It was much harder searching for wood under the carpet of snow that lay on the ground but eventually she had gathered enough for Menos to be satisfied. "Go pray," he said, "I'll keep a watch whilst you go and seek your gods."

Arya helped Olyvar up onto his crutch and together they slowly walked to the grove of weirwoods. Arya had never seen so many of the trees in one place before, all had faces carved into their trunks and the reddish evening light became a deep bloody red as it filtered through the leaves. As they entered the grove Olyvar broke off leaving Arya to find her own tree to pray to. Arya walked deeper into the grove until she saw a young tree, it's trunk not quite as wide as her but already someone had carved a grim face into the trunk.

She knelt before it staring into the red sap weeping from its eyes. She prayed then for her father, that he might get peace and know she was safe at the wall. For her mother, Sansa and her elder brothers that they might stay safe wherever they were. Then she prayed for Bran and Rikkon, that they had not suffered, that they would be avenged. As she did so the wind through the leaves of the grove picked up and for a fleeting moment she had a sense that they were close, or coming towards her, but then it was gone. Perhaps she thought the soles of Starks travelled north after death to where the old gods and first men still held sway; tired of the games and intrigues of the Southrons.

Finally she prayed for herself, to understand what Jaqen had meant, to confirm she was still welcomed by the Old Gods even if the Red God had left her mark on her. As she did so she felt compelled to approach the face on the tree, and staring into its eyes she gripped the tree with both hands. She lowered her face level with its face and whispered:

"I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, in my veins runs the blood of the first men. I pray that the Old Gods know this to be true even when I do not and pray for their protection."

As she finished the wind whipped up and the rustle of the leaves grew deafening. Amidst the cacophony she thought she could pick out her name in the sound of the leaves. Suddenly the wind died down and her vision snapped. She was looking at herself holding the tree and then the focus of her gaze shifted to a Marten nestled high up in the branches of a tree. Then she was back looking out her own eyes from the tree. She had no idea what had just happened but felt more at ease nevertheless.

She remained in the weirwoods for a long time after until eventually Olyvar approached, at some point Menos had joined him. The old man called to her, "Sun's going down. Feels the right time to say your words. Are you ready?"

"Yes," she replied, surprised to find she was.

"There's no going back," Menos said, "this is a hard path you have set yourself on, and it'll be harder for you to walk it then your brothers. Are you still sure. For what it's worth neither Olyvar or I would take your life. You could start anew with the free folk, the wildlings, if you like. You would find a place with them."

"No," she said firmly, "this is my path."

"Good," said Olyvar, "what Menos said is true but I'm glad to have had the measure of you child. Now, place your hand in the tree and swear your oath."

Arya looked at the tree she had stood before. Somehow she felt that swearing her oath to it wasn't quite right, that what she had said to it in secret had burdened the young tree enough. No she thought, an oath needed to be sworn to a tree in which the Old Gods were strong and well rooted. So instead she walked over to a great tree, towering over her, she had to stretch to place her hand in its mouth. Then sure she had learnt the words correctly she began:

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

"Good," said Olyvar, "now let's get a fire lit and see if we can find the beer I stashed in the sled."

\----------------

They had drunk and talked late into the evening before Menos had decided they should turn in. Arya as the youngest was charged with the first watch - to sober up joked Olyvar. Menos said to wake him when the moon was near the end of the third quarter of the sky and then taking Olyvar with him bid her good night with a promise to talk more of her future in the Watch now she was a brother.

She sat by the fire, remembering to keep it burning for Menos. The night was perfectly clear and she could see the distant flashes of the aurora close to the horizon appear fleetingly between the trees. The forest did not seem so quiet now she had become accustomed to it, it was just the snow muffled the sounds of it, now her ears had adjusted though she could distinguish the faint sounds of animals moving amongst the trees. 

A soft keening pricked her ears and she looked up to see the little Marten from earlier. It keened again and seemed to be looking directly at her, she met is gaze and suddenly was looking out of its eyes staring at her sitting still by the fire. Then she was running over branches and leaping between trees. It was exhilarating as she tumbled and sprung in the little creatures body. It reminded her of the wolf dreams she had in the riverlands and for a moment she panicked that she must have fallen asleep whilst she was meant to be stood watch. That didn't feel right though, she thought, she had been awake right until the moment she had looked into the animal's eyes. She wondered if she was awake if she could control the experience. Tentatively she thought about looking to her right, slowly the animal turned its head, but then there was a resistance and a sense of urgency, and the animal was of again springing through the trees.

When they had travelled a good few minutes from the camp, now just a faint glow in the distance barely visible through the trees. The animal turned its head straight forward and seemed to extend its senses to focus on a point in the far distance. She wondered what it was so intent on and then she stated to pick them out. A group of ten wildlings, their furs decorated with bones that looked both animal and human, were moving silently truth the forest in the direction of the camp. There weapons, simple things of bronze and stone but no less deadly looking for all that, were drawn and at a hand signal from the man in front they began turned fan out. Suddenly she knew she had to get back to warn the others. She tried to turn the little body of the Marten but instead she felt a push against her mind and suddenly she was back behind her own eyes.

Loosening her sword and grabbing her bow, she moved as quietly as she could to the tent and kicked Menos and Olyvar. "wildlings, ten approaching from the north west," she hissed. Both men sat up instantly, Menos drawing his sword and rushing out of the tent, and stamping out the fire.

"Old friend," he said to Olyvar, "get into cover behind the sled with the crossbow, we'll try to draw them away from the horses." 

He pointed at Arya to move to their right as he headed to the left. "Stay here and cover Olyvar. Use the bow for as long as you can but don't leave it too late to draw steel and watch for them flanking you." Then he was off running into the forest. Arya knocked her first arrow and waited. The forest was still eerily quiet, the wildlings made next to no noise and her eyes struggled to pick out shapes in the dark. Then she saw a glint of starlight reflecting of bare metal, quickly she aimed and loosed the arrow, as was rewarded by a howl. Then the shape reared up and charged towards her. Quickly she fired a second arrow, aiming at the shapes head now she could distinguish it, and this time the man went down for good.

Suddenly the grove exploded in sound as the other wildling men screamed war cries and charged. Off to her left she heard the sound of blades clashing and knew Menos must be fighting, behind her she heard the sound of the crossbow and a thud as it brought a man down in the distance. Her attention though was on the three men running at her with spears lowered. She sent an arrow into the leg of one man causing him to fall and sent another just wide of the second before they were upon her and she was rolling away from a spear thrust. Drawing her sword as she regained her feet she parried the next thrust aimed at her. She was on the defensive though, the longer reach of the spear men meant she couldn't force an opening with her own blade and gradually she was forced back towards the camp. Then there was a crack as a quarrel from Olyvar's crossbow cracked open the skull of one of her attackers. Not hesitating she used the distraction to spin past her attackers next jab and closing with him thrust her sword up and through his neck into his skull. He collapsed instantly and she wrenched her sword free. She was nearly back at the sled now. Menos had also been forced back, his sword dripped blood and he held it out confidently but she could see his movements were stiff, his left leg not moving his it should. Two men approached him warily, she scanned for other threats, trying to recall how many men she had seen go down, but she could see none. The two men had engaged Menos now and were pressing him hard. Not knowing where she had dropped her bow she did the only thing she could and charged into the fray. One of the men broke off to meet her charge bringing his spear up to meet her sword swing. She succeeded in chopping the point off the spear but the splintered shaft was thrust at her regardless. The jack of plate caught the blow, saving her from a slow death, but the force of the blow had her flying through the air her sword falling from her hand. She tried to regain her feet but the wind had been blown out of her and she only succeeded in rolling into her knees. Looking up she could see than man approaching a wicked looking hand axe now drawn. She went to reach for her dagger but knew she wouldn't make it in time. She could see the man prepare the blow that would split her skull with a horrified fascination. She would not flinch she thought. Then just as he had been about to strike a sword ripped through the wildlings chest and she saw Menos behind him. The man collapsed dead and Menos withdrew his sword and then offered her a hand up.

"I count ten down," shouted Olyvar, "best check for any still living."

Regaining her sword, she and Menos went and checked the wildling bodies. The only man still living was the man with her arrow buried deep in his thigh. He had pulled himself up against a tree but the blood pooling around him me it clear the arrow had nicked an artery, when it was removed he would die. For the time being be was conscious.

"I can give you a swift passing," said Menos, "or I can make it a difficult one."

"Dead is dead Crow," said the wildling with a sneer.

"Are there others coming?"

"Thousands, Mance will crush all you kneelers."

"The King?"

"Aye, the King, we know you are weak crows, even now the great crow lies dead, soon we will be upon you."

"There is no King beyond the Wall," stated Arya.

"Ha, you know nothing boy," the wildling laughed at her, "there are kings beyond the wall crow and beyond your ken. Mance is only the most merciful, if you let him pass the Wall he may let you live and he'll give you a swift death if not. Now crow send me on my way just make sure you burn our bodies before you leave or you'll be seeing me again sooner than you think." Then the wildling started to laugh maniacally and still was as Menos plunged his sword through his heart. 

"You did well," he said to Arya, "come, we best do as he says."

"Why?" 

"All men deserve dignity in death."

"That's not what I meant," she said.

"Sharp aren't you," called Olyvar, who must have been slowly approaching for sometime, "you're of the North. You're nan never tell you tales of the long night."

"There just stories though."

"In this forest," said Menos, "are you sure?"

"When the horn at the gate sounds what is the third blast for?" Asked Olyvar when he saw her sceptical look.

"Others," she replied.

"Aye, and what are the others?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

"The dead child."

"That's impossible," she said.

"Is it?" said Menos, "in Bravos I'd have agreed with you. A year ago I would have still agreed with you. Just before you came to us we slew four men who looked like they had died a long time ago. Cotter ordered them burnt and that was wise. At Castle Black a dead ranger rose and attacked the Lord Commander and his steward, only fire could stop him. So Maester Aemon wrote to Cotter. Even now Castle Black has emptied in a great ranging to see if there are more wights infesting the forest."

Arya said nothing not believing the two men would trick her but finding their tale hard to believe nonetheless. 

"Some things you need to see to truly believe," Olyvar said sympathetically, "I hope none of us ever do."

"Well said," agreed Menos, "in the meantime, let us take no chances, yes?"

\-------------

It had taken her and Menos the rest of the night, the morning and into the afternoon to dig a trench in the frozen ground and to pile the bodies and kindling within. A small bottle of oil was produced and used to soak some of their supply of dry wood which was then placed at some key places in the pyre. Menos had lit the pyre with about two hours of light left.

They had debated camping another night but, with the pyre acting like a beacon to anyone hunting them and the need to warn Cotter, they eventually agreed to ride through the night to Eastwatch. The next argument had been whether Menos should ride fast and alone, which she had argued for, with Arya escorting Olyvar, or whether to stay together, as Menos had wanted, or for the two of them to leave Olyvar to return on his own, as he had argued passionately for.

In the end they travelled together, the ranger's will and experience of the forest winning out. Most of the time Menos rode a short distance ahead scouting, whilst Arya meandered her horse in circles around the sled; keeping watch in all directions. After the fourth hour of that Menos declared them only a couple of hours from the treeline and the Wall. Whilst not safe he had relaxed enough to stop and rest the horses with them.

They set off again riding either side of the sled and sharing some of the emergency rations - black bread and salted seal meat. "So you have said your words," Menos stated.

"I have, you were there," she said wondering what this would be about. Olyvar had also raised an eyebrow from where he sat on the sled.

"As I said you have chosen a hard path one that is harder for you to walk than the boys like Bryn."

"Is this about me being short?" She said huffily, "because I think I've proved I can fight as well as any man of the Night's Watch."

"That you can," said Menos. "You did well, I'm going to ask Cotter to make you a ranger. You're a capable fighter but you'll be better off being a something else, a far-ranger."

"A far-ranger?"

"Yes, we are few. We range farther than any of the others and alone. We try to learn the movements of the distant wildling tribes, and even to penetrate the land of always winter bringing our knowledge back to the Wall. That is why the wildlings words trouble me and we must warn Cotter. My own rangings tell the same tale. The ways of wildlings are hard to fathom, a meeting place they have used for decades they may suddenly abandon. Villages disappear with the seasons but too many things are aligning at once. Besides those men were Thenn from the far North, far from home this far south. These are the ways you will now have to learn. We choose our own successors. Benjen Stark chose me not long after I had taken the black. He was made First Ranger a long time ago and I should have chosen my successor when he was appointed but I never found someone who felt right. Now he is missing and I return to the wall knowing I must choose and the fates smile as my old friend Olyvar says he has someone he thinks might suit."

She glared at Olyvar, "so your need to pray wasn't coincidental?"

"No," replied the old man, "there is no conspiracy between men here. If there is it is between the Old Gods."

"He is right," said Menos, "until the other day I had not been at Eastwatch in three years. I was glad to see my old friend still living, gladder still to hear he had found someone who might take to this life, and gladder yet further to have the opportunity to travel and take the measure of them. I liked what I found even before we drew steel together and after that I knew you would be my choice."

"Why, I'm not even properly trained. I couldn't survive on my own here."

"There is no training for this path. I will teach you what I know of how to survive in the haunted forest and the far places. Yes you can learn to fight better, but when you are alone in the true North, fighting is seldom a good option. Truly though there is no preparation. You range and you come back or you don't."

"Yes but why me then?"

"Because you don't fit in here. Those  who don't fit either end up dead." "Or end up as far-rangers or commanders," interjected Olyvar, "look at Cotter, an illiterate Ironborn, Benjen Stark and the Lord Commander, the only nobles you could actually call such to join the watch in hundreds of years, and Menos, a Bravosi at the wall, who heard such a ridiculous thing."

"And me," she said apprehensively.

"I am not blind, old maybe, but not blind," replied the old man.

"How long have you known?"

"I was sure after the stables," he said. "Maybe if you hadn't been grieving you would have hid longer, maybe not."

"I saw at once," laughed Menos, "A water dancer see truths that sit in front of his eyes."

"Don't listen to the fool," said Olyvar, "he had the benefit of me sharing my suspicions with him first."

"Does anyone else know," she asked.

"No, not as far as I know."

"The life of the far-ranger will help protect you," said Menos, "you will come and go, the changes that will eventually give you away living in the castle day to day will not be noticed as easily. Eventually your brothers will work out the truth but when you are a visitor to their lives they'll enjoy keeping the secret, mocking the questions of the new recruits."

"You can't know that," she said.

"No but I know men of the Night's Watch."

"So girl, now we're all being honest time to tell us who you really are?" asked Olyvar.

"Are you sure you want to know," she said, "the fates haven't been kind to those who've found out."

"The fates already have been cruel to us, I think we'll take our chances."

"Fine," she said, "My name is Arya Stark"

"Seven hells Menos," laughed Olyvar, "we best hope Benjen Stark never finds out you just recruited his fucking niece."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with proof reading - sorry I wrote most of this on the 6:15am train to Blackfriars on my phone.
> 
> In the next chapter we talk of kings and other things...


End file.
